


I Thought I Told You

by Capostrophe



Series: At The End of the Day [7]
Category: Bread (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Cheekiness, Childhood, Children, Clearing out dead people's things, F/M, Fatherhood, Inheritance, Marriage, Motherhood, Reflection on the past, Timeskip, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 19:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capostrophe/pseuds/Capostrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle Boswell is cheeky, insolent and obsessed with money and gangsters- she's Joey's daughter, all right. And Martina wouldn't have it any other way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Thought I Told You

**1997-2003**

Belle Boswell is her father's daughter, all right.

This much becomes painfully obvious when she's merely hours old, barely awake and barely able to move.

Joey's sitting on the windowsill beside Martina's hospital bed, playing with a pound note he found in his pocket while she marvels at the sleepy little thing in her arms, at the fact that this somehow _belongs_ to her, and wonders how she could ever have not wanted this.

Annabelle's been crying on and off, but though Martina hasn't successfully worked out how to get her to sleep, she's been quiet for the last little while, squinting around and yawning.

'Here,' Joey hops off the sill, comes to sit on the bed beside them. 'Aveline was tellin' me that if you do this..' he holds his finger against Belle's fist, and she curls her miniature digits around it. Joey's face lights up for about the hundredth time.

'I thought it was common knowledge, that.'

Joey smiles broadly. 'Yeah, but _Belle's_ doin' it. And she's _ours_.'

This doesn't make much sense, nor is it the most coherent sentiment Joey's ever come out with, but Martina knows how he feels.

It's sweet, watching him, his exuberance and enthusiasm. He's more excited than a three-year-old boy; the sun's just shining out of him. Not that Martina's any less happy herself. She feels completely light and airy, and internally she's reacting just as Joey is- but emotional displays are more his department. Martina just sits there, basking in the feeling, quietly and calmly awed.

Joey leans in carefully, reaching forward to take Martina's face in his hand and kiss her.

And about halfway to her mouth he stops, his brow furrowing.

'What is it?'

Joey leans back, and Martina gets to see exactly what's made him start.

Belle's no longer holding Joey's finger.

Instead, she's somehow gotten the pound note out of his hand and is crushing it in her tiny fist.

Joey's astounded. Martina laughs about it for ages.

'Already snatchin' money, and she's not even a day old! Out and out _Boswell_ , this one!' She shakes her head, looking down at her daughter fondly. 'Give me strength!'

* * *

The thing that surprises Joey most about Belle is the fact that she has red hair. At first, when the auburn locks start to develop, he thinks there must be some sort of mistake, panics that the child isn't his. Martina listens to his panic for about five seconds, rolls her eyes and tells him to calm down. She shows him photographs of her brother, pointing out in each one the colour that almost exactly matches Belle's, reminds him that her maiden name was McKenna.

'Besides,' she adds, lightly touching Belle's nose, 'with a conk like _that_ , she's _got_ ter be yours.'

Now she mentions it, Belle does have his nose- but he resents the insinuation that it's in any way big. She's provided him with plenty of ammunition for revenge, though, and he immediately makes use of it.

'So,' he begins, a new tease beginning to form in his mind, 'you're Scottish, are you, sweetheart?'

'Well not _me,_ obviously! But somewhere down the line _someone_ must've been, mustn't they?' She sees the look on his face, seems to read his mind, know what he's planning to say.

'But that was _a long time ago, Mister_ Boswell! At _least_ five generations!'

Joey ignores the comment, because it's too good an opportunity to pass up, and for several days afterward, he speaks to Martina in a Scottish accent, until she hits him and tells him so sternly to stop doing it that he daren't continue the jape.

'Can't you do something about that hair?' Nellie asks Joey irrationally when she first sees it. 'I don't like it. It reminds me of Lilo Lil.'

And so Joey takes to affectionately calling his daughter 'Lilo Belle', until Martina hits him and tells him to stop doing _that_ and all.

* * *

'D'you think,' Joey says one day, 'that now we've got a baby we can get a proper family allowance from the DSS?'

Martina rolls her eyes. 'Remember who you're talkin' to, Joey!'

It's meant as a warning, he knows, but he interprets it differently when he replies to her.

'Ah, yes, of course!' he smacks himself in the head, 'what was I thinkin', sweetheart? Why, _you_ can pull strings and get us all _sorts_ o' benefits for Belle!'

'She doesn't need benefits. She'll 'ave us providin' for 'er.'

' _But_ she might do. One day.'

Martina hurls one of Belle's toys at him.

* * *

Belle's first word, according to her father, is 'cash.'

Martina doesn't believe him.

' _My_ first word was 'greetings!'' Joey insists. Martina doesn't believe this either.

'Oh, it's true, you know,' Nellie informs her one day, as they're sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. She invites her and Joey round for tea quite frequently, especially now since she's got a new grandchild to see. Martina's holding Belle in her lap as they chat, and her daughter is contentedly making nonsense sounds to herself and chewing on what used to be Martina's favourite necklace, before Belle claimed it as her own.

'Or at least, according to his father it is. He'd never leave Joey _alone_ when that one was born- was in the nursery with him so often it's a wonder that baby ever slept at all! Well, anyway, he came running down one night (he'd been drinking, I could tell because he had that _glazed_ look, you know how they always get when there's ale in the picture), _hollering_ at me that Joey had spoken.'

'Mhmm,' Martina says.

'Well, I knew he wasn't have going to have said something predictable, because being predictable isn't Joey's style…'

Martina begs to differ here. Predictable is _precisely_ Joey's style, in her opinion. She nearly always knows exactly what he's thinking, and most of the time it's to do with money, schemes, his Jag or the family. But she wants to hear how this story ends, so she doesn't interrupt.

'But I didn't expect his Dad to come out claiming he'd said 'greetings.' It was probably just noises, but then again, Joey does like to surprise people…'

Martina's not convinced. 'D'you think the ale might've 'ad somethin' ter do with it?'

'But then,' Joey, who's been silent for the rendition of the story, now decides he wants his input, 'why is it that I _still_ say 'greetings' even now?'

'Because you're obnoxious,' Martina says. 'That's why.'

Joey just laughs, rolling a 10p coin between his fingers. 'In a loveable sort of way.'

He notices Belle's stopped what she's doing, is watching him with intense fascination, and he spins the 10p across the table to her, grinning as the baby's eyes go wide, following it as it judders around and then collapses a few inches away from her.

'Cash,' says Annabelle, and makes a grab for the coin.

Joey is annoyingly smug. Martina maintains that it's a coincidence. Babies, even baby _Boswells_ , don't say 'cash' as a first word. It's just a noise she's been making, (she _has_ been going 'shhhh' quite a lot these days) and she just _happens_ to make it when there's something small within her reach that she can pick up.

But even she has to admit, it is just a _little_ bit eerie. It didn't half _sound_ like 'cash.'

* * *

At eleven months, Belle starts to walk, and at thirteen months she's confident enough to let go of the furniture and do it on her own. Martina and Joey take her outside, wrapped in a little coat and mittens, and pass her between them, increasing the distance each time, seeing just how much of it she can take.

Joey kneels on the drive in front of his car, holds out his arms as Martina releases her, burning the sight of her into his brain, miniature smile carbon-copied from Martina's face, the sunlight hitting her hair, bringing out the red in it.

'Belle,' he calls, reaching out further towards her, giving her an inviting grin. 'Come to Dad!'

Annabelle pauses mid-step, gives him a searching look, and then changes direction, stumbling to his left and reaching out, putting her little hands on the door of his Jaguar, leaning forward onto it.

Joey's jaw drops. 'Eh!' he says, picking her up and holding her in front of his face. 'I said _Dad_ , not _Jag!'_

Martina collapses on the lawn laughing.

* * *

It's not until Belle's three and a half that Martina goes back to work, and even then, it's only for a couple of days a week. Much as Joey's a wonderful, doting parent, much as she trusts him with their daughter, she doesn't like the idea of leaving Belle alone at home with him. Who knows what sort of Boswell mischief he might teach her?

Not that she seems to need any sort of teaching. She seems to have the Boswell mischief ingrained into her already, smiling cheekily and trying to get herself out of trouble with a few carefully chosen words, (or quite a lot- she is a talkative little thing when she wants to be.)

She wonders and worries about it all morning, and the first few clients find her much more of a pushover than she used to be.

But when Mister Wilson, as loud and randy as ever, if a bit balder and greyer than before, makes a comment that she's gone 'soft', she pushes thoughts about her husband and child aside and slips fully back into her role, pulling it on like a moth-eaten costume that still fits.

By the time Mrs Cullen bangs her head on the desk and demands a replacement for what must be her thirtieth satellite dish, she's right back into it, and the sharp remarks and shout of 'next!' just roll off her tongue.

* * *

Martina drags her feet as she walks into the living room that evening, the familiar stress weighing her down. She wishes now she hadn't been so stubborn, hadn't insisted on keeping her job even when Joey had said he could support the three of them, because she was determined that her daughter should have at least _one_ parent who earned money by legal means. It's tiring, depressing work, and she's been shouting herself hoarse calling out numbers and _next_ and telling people that no, they cannot have another allowance, and oh, no, she has not missed it at all. For a few years she's been completely, totally happy, and now the real world has seeped back into her little utopia.

Of course, she won't tell Joey that. He'd make mincemeat of her and be smug all evening, insist he's right and she should have stayed at home. He loves being right too much for his own safety.

The animated voice of her daughter wafts up from the other side of the room, and the stress dissipates as Martina sees her there, hair unruly and socks not pulled up, lying on the rug playing with Duplo-men.

The once and future DHSS lady's heart melts and she smiles. She takes a few steps closer.

'Give us the readies. No! Never! We'll burst you. Ahhhh but we are a biiig, biig, fam-i-ly, you can't hurt us. Give us the money…'

Martina blinks. She may not have read all that many parenting books, but she's sure those aren't normal things for a child of Annabelle's age to be saying, and she doesn't remember ever teaching her expressions like 'readies' and 'burst you'.

She squats down, wrapping her arms around Belle's shoulders and giving her a kiss. 'What are you playin'?'

'Mafia,' says Belle, and keeps at it.

Er.

Martina arches an eyebrow. ' _Mafia_? Really?'

'Yep.' She scrambles into a proper sitting position, handing her one of the figures. 'This one's Dad. See? Greetings!'

'Oh, yeah?' Martina's voice is wary. 'Dad, is it?'

'He told me,' Belle says.

'Told you what?'

'The story. See one day Daddy and Uncle Jack and and Grandad were in trouble off a bad man,' Martina takes it Annabelle's paraphrasing, given the vocabulary she's using, 'and he had a friend called Yizzel and they stole a candle-bra.'

'You mean _candelabra?_ '

Belle has a go at repeating the correct pronunciation, and then carries on with her story. 'And they put it in Uncle Jack's car.' She takes the figure that's meant to be Joey back and tosses it onto the sofa to demonstrate. 'And they wanted monies from Grandad too, and they chased Daddy in the Jag and SMASHED into it like this,' she illustrates with her fist.

'Oh, yeah?' Martina says, because she's not all that sure what else she _can_ say. She's not sure she likes this story, not when it's being related to her by a child who's not old enough to understand half of it.

'And then Uncle Jack found the candla-bra, and Dad and Uncle Adrian and Uncle Billy all got their cars and they took it back to the bad men, and they made the bad men give _them_ monies, because they knew about the candlea, and the men prob'ly stole it, and Daddy and them lot were a strong family who could fix things.'

'Is that so?' _What on earth has Joey been telling her?_

'Yeh, and they were upset too. Uncle Adrian was upset because he was redundered, I don't know what that is, Uncle Billy was sad because Auntie Julie was up the duff, and Auntie Aveline was upset because there was a magazine with pictures of her with no clothes on.'

Martina's mouth drops open.

'I don't think you should play that game, love,' she says feebly.

' _Why?_ ' Annabelle demands, but Martina's too shocked to answer her right now. She pats Belle on the shoulder, stands up in a daze and turns in the direction of the stairs.

_'JOEY!'_

* * *

'Oh, sweetheart,' Joey says, 'I was just tryin' to entertain 'er!'

He thinks Martina's reaction is just a tad over the top. After all, he's shared with his daughter some of his most precious, memorable experiences, in the hope that she'll learn a thing or two about the way families help each other out. And she loved hearing it, too. She's learned some very advanced new words to boot.

'There are _hundreds_ of ways to entertain her,' Martina says crossly, 'surely you, with that Boswell brain o' yours could have spun _thousands_ o' different stories ter keep 'er occupied- do you really think a story with blackmail and theft and criminals, not ter mention teenage pregnancy and pornography- and I don't even know _how_ they're supposed ter fit into it- is really appropriate fer a _three-year-old?!_ '

'It teaches a very valuable lesson about fam-i-ly,' Joey says, ignoring the look on her face that indicates she wants to throttle him, 'about unity, and love, and stickin' together. Those are all values Belle should be learnin' at a young age!'

'Yes, _Mister Boswell_ ,' oh dear, she really _is_ angry with him, 'as is _stickin' ter the law._ Whatever unsavoury things you got up to with yer family- united as you all were- _don't_ need ter be shared with our daughter- especially not at this age.'

Joey thinks quickly. He nods, doing a very convincing act of looking remorseful and having conceded, but he's coming up with a little revenge plan.

'But I can tell her other things, can't I?'

'Provided they're _appropriate._ '

'Appropriate,' Joey says, doing his utmost to suppress a crocodile grin, 'of course.'

He's thought of something _very_ good to tell Belle next time. And there's not a trace of theft or dodgy dealing or criminals in it at all.

Martina goes in to the Social Security again three days later, and when she returns home, Belle greets her with 'Mam, did you _really_ used to kiss a man called Shifty?'

She delivers the line so perfectly, such a brilliant mix of cuteness and innocence, and Martina's face is so priceless that Joey just sits on the stairs and laughs and laughs and laughs.

He's going to be in humungous trouble- but it's worth it.

* * *

When Martina first became a mother, she'd had a very definite picture of what it was going to be like. Granted, a lot of her ideas came from clichés and the word of mouth of others, but she'd thought them to be realistic enough. She thought she knew exactly what she'd worry about, with regard to her daughter, exactly what she'd be joyful about, exactly how she'd react to misbehaviours and how she and Joey might clash over what to do with her. And the most frequent thing she'd say to her daughter, she'd thought she'd known with one hundred per cent certainty, would be _I love you_.

The most frequent thing turns out, in actuality, to be _I thought I told you_.

And always, in return, comes a 'yes, _but…_ '

It's not that she doesn't love her daughter- she does, she does so very, very much. It's just that she thinks, nay, _knows_ she's told Belle many things, and Belle, in return, always has a sneaky way round whatever the specific instruction was.

And it's not that Annabelle's naughty, as such, well, not considering who her father is, it's not as if she's nasty or spiteful or deliberately bratty, it's just that if something's not to her taste, she sees no shame in rectifying the situation by doing what she deems best, regardless of what others tell her. It's so very _Joey_ \- she just cheerfully goes along her own way, justifying herself with clever little excuses (which never work on Martina- not when she's used to the more developed, adult excuses Joey's been pitching to her for years).

At six years old, she's got her own little set of rules, her own interpretations to every instruction which stretch it 'til it's barely recognizable. And she always, always, _always_ has to have the last word.

'I thought I told you not ter play with that,' Martina says one evening, catching her daughter with a new car part Joey brought home, with the intention of somehow fitting it to his Jag, but which has been sitting in the kitchen for weeks, because he doesn't actually know how to do it. It's sharp, dangerously so, and the parental warnings about staying away from it make it even more intriguing to Belle.

'Yes, _but_ I'm not playing with it,' Belle says without batting an eyelid. She smiles sweetly. 'I'm making sure it's safe so no-one _else_ plays with it.'

'Nice try,' says Martina, and takes it off her.

She's got a lot of Martina in her too, though, and don't let anyone say she hasn't. If Belle feels some injustice has been done to her, she tightens her mouth, and to Martina it's like looking in a mirror. For all her trying to dupe her parents and anyone else who tells her to do something, she knows full well if she herself is being duped, and she's quick to express her indignation. She's not miserable, though. Martina's biggest fear had been that Belle would be born depressed, would look at life cynically like her, but she seems to have dodged that particular pothole, and Martina offers up prayers of thanks about that every night. She'd rather cheery insolence than miserable sulkiness any day.

* * *

It isn't often Joey's siblings come to their house, but, for perhaps the first time in years Billy's got Francesca spending the day with him, and, unsure what to do with her now she's older (and totally indoctrinated by Julie to the extent that she makes plain her disdain for all of her father's family), Billy's come here, in the hope that his older brother will know what to do.

An afternoon with an annoying, tactless Boswell brother and a sulky teenager sitting on her sofa is not something Martina enjoys one bit. She disappears into the kitchen for hours at a time, boiling the kettle and then boiling it again so that she can stay in there for as long as possible so as to avoid having to listen to Joey teasing Billy, to the alternation between the loud music emitting from Francesca's headphones and the long silences as she refuses to speak to them.

The kettle whistles and she takes it off, laying it on the side but not pouring it. It might be in her best interests to get around to buying an electric one, so she can just flick the switch over and over. Ah well. She's been 'putting the kettle on' for twenty minutes now- she's going to have to start doing something else. Martina gets out a mug, puts it on the table and stares at it.

'Aren't you supposed to put stuff _in_ that cup before you drink it?' comes a taunting voice.

'Don't be snarky, Annabelle,' Martina mutters, siphoning a spoonful of coffee into her cup just for show. 'Anyway, I thought you were in there, with Francesca.'

Belle's fascinated by the older girl- by her rebellious dress sense and miserable attitude. For the past three hours she's been trying to start up a conversation with her cousin, acting borderline ridiculous to try and get her attention, to little avail. The most Francesca's done is manage a half-hearted smile or comment before going back into her sulk.

And Belle (like her father) is completely undaunted by the fact that someone she's trying to annoy wants to be left alone, and has been persevering nonetheless.

'I was,' Belle says, 'but I haven't seen you in so _long_. Why are you out here?'

Her cheeky smile indicates she probably has a good enough idea of why Martina is out here; she's deliberately being facetious.

Martina narrows her eyes and begins to rack her brain for something to say, but her train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming.

'I THOUGHT I'D FIND YOU HERE, BILLY!' the shrill voice rings through the house.

Martina groans. It's Julie. _Just_ what she needs.

'I DON'T RECALL SAYIN' YOU COULD BRING MY DAUGHTER HERE, I'VE TOLD YOU, I DON'T WANT HER INVOLVED WITH ALL THAT BOSWELL LOT!'

'NOW YOU LISTEN 'ERE, JULIE!'

There's a smash as something's thrown, and Martina winces, wondering what she'll have to replace later.

And then the whole building is filled with hollers and shrieks and language far too inappropriate to be uttered in front of other people.

Martina lets out a hiss of breath through her teeth and turns to her daughter. 'Go upstairs, Annabelle.' She doesn't want Belle getting caught in the crossfire, especially if they've actually escalated to physical violence.

'And miss all this?'

'Go upstairs and _stay there_ ,' Martina instructs crossly, ignoring Belle's pout and sweeping into the living room. She's going to see to this.

Julie's voice is climbing in pitch. They're all but in each other's faces, practically shouting into each other's mouths.

'AND I DON'T WANT YOU EXPOSIN' MY DAUGHTER TO THAT KIND OF RUBBISH, BILLY BOSWELL!'

'SHE'S MY DAUGHTER TOO, YOU KNOW!'

Oh, Martina's had more than enough. Shooting a glare at Joey, who's pretending not to listen (or perhaps _actually_ not listening- he's got a car magazine and if he finds a picture of a Jaguar he can be out for days),she pushes herself between them.

'Right. That's it. _Out,_ both o' you.'

Billy and Julie manage to stop rowing for long enough to register what's just been said.

'Eh,' Billy says, 'we're tryin' to sort somethin' out!'

'OH, IS THAT WHAT YOU CALL IT, BILLY BOSWELL!'

'Well, can you sort things out somewhere else?' Martina demands, tapping her foot.

Billy's already on his feet but that doesn't stop him from yelling nonetheless. 'I CAME HERE FOR JOEY'S ADVICE, ALL RIGHT?!'

This seems to get Joey's attention- at last. He puts down his magazine and stands up.

' _Bill_ -y!'

Billy pauses. Julie stands there fuming. Francesca seems to have perked up, and is enjoying the drama.

'Why don't you go 'ave your quarrel elsewhere- okay?'

His little brother fumes. 'Are you kickin' me out?'

'Well, yes, son! We don't all wanna be exposed to your irrational anger- now why don't you go and sort it out outside?'

'Oh, yes, let your Joey fight your battles for ya,' Julie snarls sarcastically, and Martina shoots her a ferocious glare.

Francesca, with a self-satisfied smirk that she passes between the four adults, rises from the sofa. 'Well, I'm off. It's been fun.' And she strides for the door, waving over her shoulder. 'S'later, Belle.'

Joey flops back onto the sofa in relief as Billy and Julie leave after Francesca, still rowing, but Martina's brow furrows at Francesca's parting words.

She turns, and lo and behold, she sees Belle sitting at the foot of the staircase, having inched down one step at a time when no-one was looking.

'Er- I thought I told you ter stay upstairs,' Martina says.

'Yeah, but I couldn't hear what they were saying from up there,' says Belle, and bounds through into the next room.

* * *

Joey sits at the kitchen table and chuckles to himself, the hilarity of his own joke too much for him to handle. He studies the form once, twice, then laughs again.

Annabelle looks up and scowls at him. 'Why are you laughing?'

'Oh, no reason, sweetheart, no reason.'

Belle doesn't look convinced. She curls her mouth, the way Martina does, and Joey smirks.

'Belle, how would you like to help me out, sunshine?'

She squints. 'Can I have some money if I do?'

'How does a pound sound?'

His daughter fakes a yawn.

'Two?'

'Okay!' she's grinning now, the gap where she's lost one of her top teeth visible. She reminds him of a cross between Jack and Aveline when she does this. He always used to bribe them, either with coins or sweets, when he wanted to sneak off somewhere- it was the only way they'd let him go without immediately dobbing. And he doesn't begrudge giving Annabelle a little extra pocket money, not when his scheme, if done right, should result in him gaining fifty extra pounds per week.

He hands the form over to her.

'Run down the DWP,' he instructs her, catching himself before he says DHSS, 'and give this to your Mam. See if you can get her to autograph that line down there,' he points it out, 'okay?'

'Why?'

'Because…' Joey clicks his tongue, 'because…I need it. Because of me strugglin' fam-i-ly, sweetheart. They might fade away, and this form will make sure they don't.'

She doesn't understand.

'Your mother will get what I mean.'

'Okay,' Belle says again, bouncing out of her seat with the form scrunched in her hand.

'Oh, and Annabelle?'

She pauses in the doorway, her ponytail swinging round as she turns.

'I didn't send you to do this, okay?'

'But you did.'

'Yeah,' Joey laughs, 'but if anyone asks, you came up with this yourself. I am far too busy to think up _schemes_.'

Belle gives him a weird look, but runs along all the same, and Joey sits back in his chair, chuckling and wishing there was a way he could have attached a microphone to her, so he could hear what Martina has to say about all this.

* * *

'Next!' Martina calls, snatching up a fresh form from the pile on her desk. She writes the date in the box at the top and folds her hands, waiting for her client to start whining about house prices and stolen items, but no such noise comes.

Martina looks up, and there sits her daughter, swinging one foot and grinning.

She perches very primly, very sweetly on her chair, a picture of innocence in her frilly frock and with her hair in a white bow, and the expression on her face reminds Martina so much of Joey at his most devious she has to stifle a laugh.

'What are you doin' 'ere?'

'I came to say I love you,' says Belle.

Martina raises an eyebrow; she's not convinced. (Not about whether or not her daughter loves her, she knows _that_ , but her motives for coming here today are entirely different, Martina's sure, and also entirely not her own.)

'I love you too,' she replies. 'Now why are you _really_ 'ere?'

'Can you write your name on this?' Belle asks eagerly, handing over a piece of paper. Martina studies it for less than half a second and her suspicions are confirmed. But she plays along. 'Any particular reason?'

'For an autograph.'

'An autograph.' Martina smirks. 'Did _Dad_ put you up ter this?'

'Dad? No, he's very busy not thinking up schemes.' She twiddles her thumbs. 'But he did say that he needs it because…because…his struggling family can't afford it and they might…fade away. Yeah.' She pauses. 'Did I get it right?'

'I'm inclined to think so, luv. I'm inclined to think so.' She leans forward over the desk. 'And 'ow much did Dad promise you if you gave me this?'

'Two quid,' says Belle unashamedly.

Martina's eyebrows are climbing so high they'll have gone right over the top of her head soon enough. 'Oh yeah? Well you can tell yer Dad that if 'e wants even ter try and trick me into signin' over a large amount o' money to 'im, he's gonna have ter do better than that.'

She plonks the form back on the desk and pushes it toward Annabelle, who smirks.

'If I do tell him, how much money can I have?'

Martina folds her arms. She's going to have to have a very serious conversation with her husband tonight about the merits (or lack thereof) of bribing one's children to do one's dirty work. Even so, she thinks, she's not all that sure Belle didn't have a rather large hand in the bribing in the first place. For someone so young, she's a bit too concerned with money for her mother's liking (Martina's even caught her trying to check the stock market once, though she can't _possibly_ understand what it all means).

She's a right little Boswell.

But she'll be damned if that doesn't make her smile.

* * *

Joey feels a fond flutter in his heart as Belle leaps from the Jag, running straight to Freddie's arms.

'Just look at you, then!' Freddie exclaims, 'all the colours of the rainbow, Belle! All the colours of the rainbow!'

He ruffles her hair, and Annabelle scowls. 'Don't, Grandad!'

She's been doing it all her life, but Joey still finds it strange that Belle calls Freddie 'Grandad'. To him, Freddie's 'Dad', _Grandad_ 's 'Grandad' and no-one else can answer to that name in quite the same way.

Grandad himself is gone now, having teetered on 'til eighty-eight, and it still doesn't feel right to Joey to pass by Number Twenty-Eight, Kelsall Street and not to see him sitting there with his beady eyes and shiny bald head, demanding his next meal.

It's been two and a half years since he's gone, and the family have only just gathered the courage to actually sort through his things, to clear out his house and make it into a home for Billy. All the Boswell siblings have come along, and, seeing as Martina has to work and it's Belle's half-term, Joey's had no choice but to bring Annabelle with him. It's not ideal, he thinks, not at all. She's too young to have to handle conversations about dead relatives' things.

Joey steps into the parlour, the musty smell enveloping his nostrils, and he feels the bubble of sadness welling up again. Surely it was only yesterday they were all in here, sitting around Grandad, reminding him of how he contributed to the family by charging them rent?

'Well, then,' says Freddie, twisting the binbag in his hand, 'where shall we start, then?'

'You _would_ be cheerful and unfeeling at a time like _this_ , wouldn't you, Freddie Boswell?!' Nellie snaps, and then they're off, screeching about carts and tarts and other such things, and Joey tunes his parents out, instead looking round the room and absorbing it all, the layer of dust coating the empty canary cage, the ornaments gone from the shelves. Over in the far corner, Billy and Jack are having a row of their own, over who gets Grandad's telly. Aveline's whining about what all the dust'll do to her hair. Adrian seems to be the only one who's actually gotten stuck into it, and is sorting through a pile of old clothes he's brought down from upstairs.

Joey glances across at Belle. She's kneeling on the floor with Davey, Adrian's youngest, who's also been dragged along, the two of them methodically going through a drawer as if they actually know what they're doing. Joey can't actually hear what they're saying to each other, but from the sounds of it, Belle's leading the operation, dishing out instructions to her cousin with stern authority, despite her being three years younger and a good deal smaller than him.

' _Hey_ ,' she says loudly, lifting something carefully out the bottom of the drawer and holding it up. 'What's _this_?'

Everyone stops what they're doing to look- even Nellie and Freddie cease fire.

'Give us a look, then, sweetheart,' Joey says, coming over.

'We found it underneath all his place mats,' Davey contributes, putting a hand on the object, and Belle snatches it away.

'Don't touch it, Davey. You don't know where it's been.'

Joey can't help a wry laugh at his daughter's serious, parental tone, and holds out his hand, into which is reluctantly placed a rather heavy cloth bag. It jingles and clinks and Joey realises in astonishment that there must be a hefty sum of money inside.

'Fancy Grandad havin' all that money stashed away!' Nellie exclaims.

Joey nods in agreement. 'Yeah, I mean, he had enough little sets o' secret savings that we _knew about,_ didn't he? Imagine how many others he's got in here?'

'Yeah, well, the thing is,' Freddie contributes, eager for his input in the conversation, 'this bag 'ere was designed to fit inside somethin'- most likely one of those china dogs he used to have on the mantelpiece. He probably kept it in there all these years and then moved it when…'

'When he knew he didn't have long left,' Adrian finishes. 'He knew Jack was probably gonna sell them.'

They all glare at Jack, who shrugs. 'Well, how was I supposed to know there might've been somethin' in 'em? Just looked like old rubbish to me- and I got ten quid for 'em…'

The glares intensify.

'Well…well, it's not as if I was just cashin' in or anythin'? But what was 'e gonna do with 'em- 'e's dead!'

Joey just shakes his head.

Belle stares up at Freddie with fascination. 'How did you know all that about the bag?'

'I've been in the buying and selling game for a long time.' Joey's dad winks. 'Natural talent, kid. Natural talent.'

* * *

Belle can talk about nothing but the 'secret money.' All throughout the day she's going on about it, even when the family's three-hour discussion about what to do with it is over, even when they're sorting out the rest of the stuff.

Joey's ducked out now, intent on getting the stash of cash to the bank and put in one of their accounts before anything can happen to it, and Belle's sitting beside him in the front seat of the Jag, chattering on and on about what she would do if she had the two thousand pounds they found today.

Joey's half-listening, half-concentrating on the road when a white car comes cruising in out of nowhere, gliding smoothly around in front of his Jag and cutting off his path.

Oh no, not them. Not now. He thought they'd gone for good.

Joey slams his foot on the brake, skidding to a stop about two feet from the door of the other car. His heart starts doing double time. He knows it shouldn't- he knows them, they're _pathetic_ , but it always does just the same.

He stops the engine. The doors of the other car swing open, and the two men step out, walking slowly towards him, menacing and yet embarrassing-looking- they're getting too old for this.

Joey's getting too old for this, too. He's forty-five. He doesn't want to be playing mob wars anymore, he just wants to get on with things- family things, important things. He sighs, pulls his key out of the ignition. Better get this over with.

'Who are they?' Belle demands.

'Bast-' Joey begins, and then realises who he's talking to. 'They're bad men, Belle. Crooks. They used to like to pick on me family from time to time. Seems like they're up to their old tricks again.'

'Hey- the ones from that story you used to tell me? Yizzel and that?'

Joey's surprised she remembers. Martina forbade him ever to tell that story again. He smirks. It's been three years, and his tale has still had a profound influence on her. _That's a point to me, Martina._

'Those are the ones, sweetheart.'

'But I thought you made 'em up!'

Joey loses grip on the wheel- thank goodness the Jag's engine's not switched on. 'What gave you that idea?'

'Mam said.'

Joey snickers in spite of the potentially dangerous situation, shakes his head. 'When we get home, tell your Mam she's just provin' I'm always right when she says things like that.'

Belle doesn't seem to get it, but she nods.

'Now stay there, okay. Whatever you see me do, or whatever you see them do, you don't get out. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'Good girl.' He climbs out, walks into the midst of the familiar thugs.

'What is it you require of me _this_ time, gentlemen?

'Well, well, Yizzel,' says his mate. He's still got the same menacing voice, though it croaks a bit more than it used to. 'Look who we've run into.'

'Run into. Yeah.'

'Okay, okay, forget all that stuff, just cut to the chase. What are you after?'

'Heard you were goin' through yer Grandad's things, didn't we, Yizzel?'

'Yeah. Your Grandad's things.'

'Now, the thing about your Grandad is that a few years back we had a bet with him, didn't we, Yizzel?'

'Yeah. A bet.'

'And as a result of that he promised to us a small bag o' money- a little velvet bag o' the stuff he'd been saving away…'

Joey feels his stomach knot.

'And he had it delivered to us, didn't he, Yizzel? Only he fobbed us off. He gave us a different bag, didn't he, Yizzel?'

'Yeah. A different bag.'

'And what's that gotta do with me?' Joey already knows the answer, but he asks all the same.

'We know you cleaned out 'is 'ouse today, don't we?'

'And what makes you think we found anythin' like that?'

'Well, we ran into your Billy, you see,' Yizzel's mate says. 'Down at the cash machine, around lunch time. He was tellin' anyone who'd hear.'

Joey cringes and curses under his breath. Billy will _never, ever_ learn, will he?

'We found out something interesting from listenin' to him, didn't we, Yizzel?'

'Yeah, something interesting…what, gov?'

Yizzel's mate rolls his eyes. 'That our Joey here was plannin' to take said bag o' money to the bank this afternoon.'

Oh, Joey is going to kill Billy. Why can he _still_ not keep his gob shut? He's in his thirties now, and he still hasn't progressed past the age of five in some respects.

'So we thought we'd explain the situation to you and collect what's ours.'

'On yer rocket.'

He wants to turn around, to walk away, but Yizzel's mate's hand shoots out and grabs his shoulder. 'I'll tell you what, seeing as I'm a generous man,' he reaches into his coat pocket and brings out a bag almost identical to Joey's, though visibly empty, 'I'll do you a swap. Your Grandad's bag for the false one he sent us.'

'No deal.'

'Hold 'im, Yizzel.'

And then Joey's arms are pinned behind his back, and though he could easily fight both of them off, the shock of the sudden movement is so much he doesn't even think of defending himself until Yizzel's mate has already felt in his pockets and withdrawn the real bag. They're really losing their touch, if they have to actually resort to physical violence to achieve their ends. And it makes him furious that they've actually succeeded in such a pathetic attempt.

'Give that back!' Joey hisses, making a lunge for the bag.

'Tsk tsk tsk. Mustn't snatch, must we, Joey? Not nice manners to snatch, is it, Yizzel?'

'No, not nice.'

'Hand that over,' Joey growls, 'or I'll…'

'Or you'll what?'

Joey and Yizzel's mate glower at each other.

'What's this, then?' Yizzel suddenly asks, looking over his shoulder. Joey turns, dreading whatever it is. How much worse can this _get?_

His suspicions are confirmed when he sees a flash of auburn hair and blue dress, and then his daughter is by his side.

'Eh,' Joey says, raising a warning finger at Belle, 'I thought I told you to stay in the car.'

'Yeah, but I couldn't see what was going on.'

Yizzel and his mate eye her up and exchange glances.

'Well, look at this one, Yizzel! It's a baby Boswell.'

'Yeah, look. Like a little Joey, but she's a girl.'

'And a redhead.'

'Yeah.'

Yizzel's mate flicks a lock of her hair, and Belle screws up her face and gives him the best Martina-scowl Joey's ever seen.

' _Don't_ touch my hair.'

Yizzel's mate laughs again, but Yizzel actually takes a step back before realising what he's doing. It's funny, in a way, watching a criminal back away from a six-year-old. Or it would be, had Joey not been both terrified for and angry with Belle for disobeying him.

He widens his eyes, a further warning. ' _Annabelle_ , get-back-in-the-car.'

'I didn't imagine you to look like that,' Belle says to Yizzel. 'I thought you'd have a beard.'

Yizzel's mate doubles over with laughter, and Joey has to bite his lip to keep his mouth in a straight line. He feels his anger at his daughter lessening, though he's still going to have a long talk with her when all this is over.

'What are you doing with Great Grandad's money?' Belle continues. 'Why are there two bags?'

'Ahh, this one's a fake. Here. Knock yourself out, kid.' Yizzel's mate tosses the other bag to Belle, who catches it neatly. 'Now, Joey, we'll be bidding you adieu. We've got our readies, I think it's time to call it quits, isn't it, Yizzel?'

'Yeah,' Yizzel says, 'call it quits.' They take dramatic strides towards their cars.

'Wait a minute!' Annabelle lets go of Joey's hand, runs towards them.

' _Belle!'_ he shouts, but she takes no notice, goes straight up to Yizzel and grabs his hand. He looks petrified.

'Can I try on your hat?'

' _Annabelle_!' Joey shouts again, hastening to her side, dragging her away. Belle tightly clutches the bag in her hand.

'Steady on, Yizzel!' Joey hears his mate reprimand. 'She's only a kid. Don't let her knock you about.'

'Kids frighten me, gov.'

'Everything frightens you, Yizzel.' He turns to Joey. 'Well, must be off. Better get this lot put safely away, hadn't we?' They retreat back into the car.

Joey holds Belle's arm so tightly she starts to protest he's hurting her, but he doesn't let go. He's not going to until those bastards are gone. He's fuming, his teeth grinding. How _dare_ they think they have any right to Grandad's hard-saved money?

'Cheers, Joey!' Yizzel's mate shouts out the window of his car, and the two drive off with a squeal of brakes.

Joey lets loose a word that really shouldn't be said in front of children. 'I don't _believe_ it! They've made off with all Grandad's savings!' He kicks a stone across the road.

'Nah,' says Belle.

Joey turns to her, about to demand what she means, and then let her have it for not doing as she was told, to find her dangling the bag she's got in front of him, the money inside jingling.

He gapes at her and she grins. 'They got the wrong one.'

Somehow she must've managed to switch them when she went up to Yizzel. Joey just stares. 'How did you do that?'

'Natural talent, Dad. Natural talent.'

* * *

Martina's forgotten to change the date on the calendar, and it's only when she does, far too late, really, at half past eleven at night, that she realises something profound.

It's been exactly ten years since she walked out on Shifty.

She can remember it as vividly, pardon the cliché, as if it were yesterday- how depressed she'd been, how filled with despair, how convinced there was no hope for her. She'd almost gone as far as to consider ending her own life. But instead she'd taken a risk, let go of him and started a new life for herself, just hoping, just _praying_ that her decision would be worth it.

She thinks about Joey and Belle. They'd come back very late this evening- only half an hour ago, in fact- having spent the entire day in Grandad's old house, and though she'd known sorting through the old man's things would be very taxing on Joey, he'd been oddly happy when they got in, and Annabelle far too excited to have been behaving herself.

The tale they'd told her had made Martina cross- both with Joey for being so irresponsible, for letting Belle anywhere near Yizzel and his mate, and with Belle for putting herself at risk and disobeying her father's instructions-but now, as she thinks about it, she can't help but see the endearing, amusing side to it. Typical Joey, having a confrontation with crooks over a mysterious money bag. And Belle, well, she'll have simply _loved_ her mafia moment. Ever since Joey told her that candlestick story when she was three, and despite Martina's attempts to get her interested in the sorts of things _normal_ children her age are into, the girl's been obsessed with gangsters. Not that Martina loves her any less for it. As Nellie once said to her, _there's nothing ordinary about a Boswell_ , and that's certainly true. Annabelle is anything but ordinary, and definitely a Boswell. She's still four years short of a decade, and already she's successfully outwitted two notorious (if rather on the petty side) criminals.

Martina doesn't know how she's wound up with a husband who fancies himself the Godfather and a daughter who fancies herself not just the Godfather but the entire mafia combined, but she knows for certain that she wouldn't exchange them for anything. She's glad she made the decision to leave Shifty. She'd hoped, in her heart of hearts that something better might have lain round the corner, and though it came as a complete surprise, is completely different to anything she could have pictured, involves a man and his family she never thought she'd be able to tolerate, let alone love, the life she's got now _is_ better. It's much, _much_ better than anything she could have dreamed up.

Joey pokes his head around the corner, swaddled in his monogrammed dressing-gown. 'Greetings!'

'I've been thinkin',' says Martina, and relays to him her revelation about how long it's been.

'And ten years well spent they've been, haven't they, dear lady?' Joey climbs in beside her, wrapping his arms around her.

' _Ten years well spent they've been…_ d'you ' _ave_ ter speak like that? Can't you ever open yer mouth without yer words soundin' like a slogan?' Martina says, by which she means _yes, of course they have._ Eight and a half of those years she's been with Joey Boswell. Seven of them they've been married. Six of them they've had the most wonderful, if a bit obnoxious, daughter she could ever wish for.

And she's never regretted any of that.

They argue about the most trivial of things, there are always rows, lectures about morality and hiding money and renditions of _I thought I told you_ , and sometimes, yes, she wakes up with a cloud over her head for no reason, but on the whole, she's happy. _They're_ happy. And Heaven knows they deserve some happiness. She's going to savour every moment of it.

'Joey Boswell,' she says, assuming a stern voice for just a moment so she has his full attention, 'I love you.'

'And you know somethin', little DHSS lady? I love you too.' He leans in close.

Martina smiles contently, shutting her eyes as Joey kisses her, softly at first, and then more roughly. She loses herself in the sensation.

'Yuck.'

All at once the romantic moment passes, and she opens her eyes to see Belle sitting at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around her pillow.

'I thought we told you ter go ter bed.'

'Yeah, _but_ …'

Martina rolls her eyes. 'Why is it there's always a ' _yeah, but'_? It's nearly midnight. You've been up since five helpin' out at Kelsall Street. Go ter bed.'

'But there's so much to talk about!' Annabelle says, bouncing up and down.

'And it'll all still be waitin' for you ter talk about it tomorrow. _Go ter bed._ '

Belle takes no notice, climbs up and over the bed, squeezing herself in between them and arranging her pillow over theirs.

'Er, what are you doin'?'

'Going to bed.'

'Yer _own_ bed.'

Again she takes no notice, settling down between them and yawning.

Martina looks over her head at Joey, who's smirking. She glances from one to the other and sighs, shakes her head and reaches for the lamp.

'You should've seen it, Mam,' Belle says just as she turns the light off, 'when I outsmarted Yizzel and his mate…'

'I _said_ you can talk about it in the mornin'. Go ter _sleep_ , Belle.'

'If I'd have been around when they stole that candle thing…'

' _Annabelle…'_

'But _if I'd been around_ …'

'Belle, what did I just say?'

'But _if_ _I had_ , I'd have been good at helpin' Dad sort it out, wouldn't I?'

'Of course you would, sweetheart,' comes Joey's voice through the darkness, 'you'd have been _fantastic_ , Belle, _fantastic._ '

' _Good night_ , both o' you,' Martina says firmly. It's getting later and later, and she's exhausted. She settles back and shuts her eyes, smiling in spite of herself as she feels Belle shuffle closer to her, feels Joey's arm go around both of them.

A glorious moment of silence follows, and Martina's quite content to let herself drift towards sleep.

'But, you _know_ …'

Martina groans. _No. Stop it._

'They'll be cross when find out they don't have the readies, won't they?'

'Don't talk like that, Belle, please. You're not a gangster.'

'But,' says Belle sleepily, 'I might be. One day.'

Always having to have the last word.

Oh, Belle Boswell is her father's daughter, all right.


End file.
